


make it to me

by disorderedorder



Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Angst with a Happy Ending, Daddy Kink, F/M, Modern AU, Oral Sex, Soft Dom Flip, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, age gap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 09:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15771327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disorderedorder/pseuds/disorderedorder
Summary: it was just work for the both of you. and then it got personal.





	make it to me

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by many a conversation magpieminx and I had about a modern AU Flip Zimmerman. 
> 
> by the way, Flip is 34 in this fic (I was taking a few creative liberties with his age) and the reader is 21, as she is still a college student, so there is a bit of an age gap, hence the tag.

Stripping wasn’t exactly the way you thought you would be paying your way through college, but after you saw how much your loans were, you knew that it was the fastest way that _wasn’t_ selling drugs. Seeing as the one was illegal and the other only came with the cost of taking off your clothes and doing private dances for strangers, under the bit of protection you’d get from the bouncers, you found yourself on Amazon one night, buying a pair of black leather pleaser heels and a skimpy black thong bikini, as well as some craft glue and some sequins. The next three nights after class, you shut yourself away in your dorm, carefully gluing the black sequins to your top and bottoms, figuring that you could afford to splurge a bit on some nicer outfits once you started making money.

 

There was no audition, no interview, nothing but the owner asking if you could dance, followed by a short laydown of the club rules: the customers have to pay to touch, you can turn down who you want for private dances, call a bouncer if a customer gets pushy or assaults you, and the house charge was around three hundred, give or take. That same night, you danced on stage with five other girls and brought home a good eight hundred, since it was a Friday night and you were dancing for a good two and a half hours straight before one of the girls encouraged you to go and take a break, wash off in the bathroom, get a drink, and come back. It was fast learning from there, not only about the unspoken rules of the club, but for customers as well. Solo parties never paid a lot, talkative guys were ones you usually had to turn down since they tended to be clingy, leave through the back exits to avoid customers trying to corner you after work, and never take drugs from club patrons. Of course, there were rules about money, about ‘claiming’ a party as your own for the night and not trying to horn in on girls who already ‘claimed’ a party. As you began working more and getting used to the swing of things, you developed a routine, if you could call it that, of seeing your regulars while the other girls took on the bigger parties, and estimating in advance how much money you’d be making.

 

One perk, you supposed, was that you were paid to drink, and it was better when your customers paid for your drinks. Some nights, you didn’t dance at all, but rather, walked amongst the crowd and tried to scope out customers for private dances, which was where the money was really a bit dicey. Thirty minutes was one-fifty even, an hour was at least two, any kind of sex could run them five hundred and over. Those nights, you sometimes walked away with two thousand, even twenty-five hundred if you were lucky. At least half went towards paying off the loans you were still taking out, the other half went towards food and inevitably, new stripper outfits. After a few months, you had accumulated a nice little collection: mostly black, but some red, with a few brighter colors sprinkled here and there, as well as one white set. Of course, there were some nights you stuck to pasties and a thong, only when it was particularly hot, but for the most part, you mixed and matched all your different black pieces.

 

One of the biggest unspoken rules was no stealing, especially not another girl’s song. It ran up there with stealing another girl’s money from the same stage you were both dancing on, and it was one of the first things the other girls told you about when you started. They gave you advice on everything you could ask for if it had to do with stripping, but they were of little help when it came to real-life issues, so you knew not to bring up those or drama around them. For the most part, they were nice, but you weren’t an idiot, and you knew who didn’t like who and which girls avoided each other for what reasons. Some of them worked well together, and were even civil enough to evenly split the money from a shared stage, but that was rare. Most of them were nice to you, but since you were also new, they were pretty hands-off unless you specifically asked for advice. You figured that was for the best, since there would be no way you could actually _learn_ if someone was constantly telling you what to do all the time.

 

The attention was nice, you had to admit, since every night you had guys telling you how beautiful you were, showering you in money, offering to buy you drinks, and even offering you drugs. You never accepted the drugs, but the free drinks were nice and the compliments were, too, even though they didn’t always come from guys you thought were all that attractive. It was hard, too, sometimes, when you came home from a long night of stripping and had to immediately shower off to book it to class. Those days, you ran solely on a blend of caffeine, power naps, and sugar. You tried to keep stripping a strictly weekend thing, but as loans piled up and you needed more expensive books for class and more resources, it started to bleed over into the week. It was also hard not to get caught up in the money, since, as time passed, you were beginning to get better at the ‘trade’ of stripping and you were making more and more money. Things that you only saw happening to other girls started happening to you, like having ‘your’ song and your own regulars, your preferred drinks, even a private room and a stage that were ‘yours.’ It was like having an unspoken assigned seat at school; no one else took it from you and you didn’t take theirs.

 

Six months working in the club passed like it was nothing, and as eight months came up, you were stripping five out of seven nights a week, having moved most of your classes to the afternoon where you could, leaving a few hours in the morning and evening to power nap and get ready to head out to the club at night. Half your hair ties were used to band up dollar bills, and you’d recently invested in a small iron to press your bills flat and to get them somewhat clean, since most came home sweaty and wadded up. The duffel bag that carried all your stripper clothes and shoes and essentials was hidden safely under your bed, even though you had no roommate. The time spent alone in your dorm, though, surrounded by your money and your accumulating outfits and shoes and body glitter, made you question the substance of what you did and if it was really worth the easy, fast money. Sure, the compliments, the free booze, and looking pretty were all nice, but some nights, you came home with five huge rolls of cash and an empty feeling in your chest, and attended class feeling worn out and hollow.

 

While no one that you attended class with knew about what you did most nights of the week, you still had no _real_ friends, no one to make a quick Starbucks run with before class, not even someone to compare notes with on a Saturday night. You sometimes wished for a sweet, understanding friend who would read over your notes while you rubbed on body glitter, someone who helped you count bills while joking about the obnoxious customers you had from time to time, a friend you could _trust_. Fear often prevented you from trying to make a friend like that, mostly for the reason that ‘they would never understand’ kept flashing across your mind. Sure, most people you were familiar with claimed to be ‘judgement-free’ and didn’t usually slut-shame, but paranoia and hesitation kept you from telling the truth about what you did after nine. It was hard enough to talk about why you had very little of your loans left to pay back; it was even harder trying to make excuses as to where the money was coming from. The explanation you often came back to was rich parents, but it felt uncomfortable to lie.

 

Perhaps the biggest turn came the night you arrived at work and your boss pulled you aside, into the back dressing room, to give you a rundown on an issue happening with one of the club regulars. He explained, as best as he could, that a customer was using the strip club as a place to upcharge his cocaine supply, as well as trying to sell it to dancers in exchange for sex. Your boss was trying to get him for exploitation, as well as soliciting other customers’ time in the club when the focus should be on the dancers. You asked about what was going to happen, what he was doing about it, and he explained a little about the undercover officer who would be frequenting the club for the next little while, who was leading the investigation. The small picture he slipped you was the size of a classic Polaroid, and in it, was a man who made your heart leap into your throat for a moment. His dark, luxuriously messy hair and intense dark eyes were uncommonly intimidating, and despite the low quality of the photo, you found yourself hoping you’d see him as soon as possible.

 

“What’s his name?” you asked as you turned the photo over in your hands.  
  
“His real name is Flip Zimmerman,” your boss replied. “But don’t call him that while he’s here, at least, not unless you’re alone. I told him to talk to you, since this guy trying to steal my club for his fuckin’ business is one of your regulars.”  
  
It was less shocking in the moment to hear that the offender was one of your regular customers than it was to hear that your boss was specifically sending Flip to you. Between the twenty minutes you had before the club officially opened, you got ready in a haze, still thinking of the unconventionally handsome, mysterious-looking detective in the photo tucked away safely behind your phone case. The other girls playfully teased you, asking you who you were thinking about, and you snapped out of your haze enough to tell them you just hadn’t had your vodka cranberry for the night yet. But the last thing on your mind was the icy cold can waiting for you in the fridge, and front and center was the man who would be asking you about the offending customer. You were the last person to leave the dressing room, your heart pounding and your eyes straining to see through the hazy red lights of the club and the smoke twirling off the lit cigarettes.

 

Less than an hour had passed when you spotted the man from the photo, given that he towered over every other club patron by a good three or four inches, and the plaid shirt and sherpa-lined jacket made him look even wider than he already was. Gingerly, he edged by groups of businessmen and frat boys, broad shoulders still managing to brush against T-shirts and sports jackets alike. You were at the bar, a glass of vodka cranberry in one hand, dressed in the one outfit that cost you over five hundred; a lacy black Agent Provocateur set and a pair of heels you only used for working the crowd and not dancing. He approached you at the bar and asked for a private dance, after buying you a second vodka cranberry and himself a tumbler of brandy. Despite the poor lighting of the club, you were able to take him in more than what his photo allowed; his facial hair gave him a rougher, rugged look, his clothes suggested someone who enjoyed the outdoors, but the roll of cash he offered you was something you had a bit of an issue reading.

 

Your private room was also called the Red Room by many of the other girls, and was also the fourth room in a lineup of twenty. Each one of them was small, but luxuriously decorated and cushy enough to be more intimate than just a lapdance on the main floor. Each room had a key, with a corresponding colored tassel that matched the room, and each key was always to be returned at the end of the night to a pegboard, but no one said anything about you keeping yours at your vanity, the way many of the girls did. As you led Flip through the door, you felt nervous for the first time since you started working at the club. Maybe it was the way he absolutely _dwarfed_ you, or the fact that his hand could close all the way around yours, or that he was the most attractive man you’d seen in your life. But as soon as the door closed, he sat on the bed and began asking questions. Of course, you knew you should have expected him to be more business than pleasure, but there was no hiding your disappointment, as much as you tried.  
  
“What do you know about this guy?” Flip asked as you wrapped yourself in your robe, tying the silk band around your waist.  
  
“Not much. He usually doesn’t do private dances, he likes to keep everything on the main floor. He stopped offering me coke after the fifth or sixth time I turned him down, but I know other girls who take it, even though we’re really not supposed to.”  
  
Flip raised an eyebrow. “Not supposed to?”  
  
“Unspoken club rule,” you said. “Well, one of them. We’ve got others, but that’s a big one, since we really don’t know if it’s really what they say it is, or if it’s something that could fuck us up and hurt us.”  
  
“Do you ever see him selling to other patrons while you’re here?” he continued.  
  
“No, usually I’m not paying attention after he pays me. He does like the bar area, though, and he hangs at the entrance for the last hour or so he’s here. I don’t see the deals, though.”  
  
“Any other drugs other than coke?” he asked.  
  
“It’s always been coke,” you replied, as you took a seat on the mound of pillows that occupied a corner adjacent from the bed. “Never weed or LSD or acid or even heroin, it’s just coke.”  
  
“How often did he offer it to you in a night before he stopped?”  
  
“Three times, at the most. He was pushy. Acted like a car salesman. Worse, really,” you said, shrugging. “But even if I didn’t know about the ‘rule’ about not taking drugs from customers, I couldn’t anyway. Going to class fucked up on cocaine isn’t ideal.”  
  
“Wait—class?” Flip asked, his tone changing from business to surprise. “You’re a student?”  
  
“Um. Yeah, I am,” you answered nervously. “Listen, if this is something illegal—”  
  
“No, no, it’s not,” Flip cut you off. “God, I just...I didn’t know you were a _student._ ”  
  
“Gotta pay off those loans somehow,” you tried to joke, but Flip shook his head.  
  
“How old are you?”  
  
“Twenty-one—look, please don’t tell the school board, I know it’s not against the rules, but I don’t want this getting out, I don’t want this to be public information,” you rambled, still nervous.  
  
“No, Babydoll, it won’t be public at all,” he stopped you mid-sentence again, and you felt your cheeks turn red from the nickname he gave you out of the blue. The slight smirk he gave you made your heart beat twice as fast as you tried to steady your breathing at least. “None of this will be public, especially not your name. You can trust me.”  
  
As he got up to leave, you couldn’t help but ask one thing. “Flip, will you be...this won’t be your last time here, will it?”  
  
“Of course not, Babydoll,” he replied, that same smirk still intact. “I’m collecting intel. One night isn’t enough. And...be safe, okay? I’ll be here for the next while, if someone’s bothering you, you can come and get me if you see me. I don’t want you getting hurt.”  
  
The same night you and Flip talked was the same night you went back to your dorm with everything relatively the same as any other night after work, save for the unusually warm feeling in your heart. Something about him telling you he didn’t want you to get hurt went past the physical surface level, and even if you were overthinking it, it did help when you went to sleep at night, knowing someone cared about your situation, even just a little. The little photo of him was safely stowed away in a jewelry box, hidden in your underwear drawer, amongst a few real diamond earring sets and one tennis bracelet that had belonged to your mother. Some nights, you pulled out the picture, feeling like some sort of lovesick teenager as you memorized the details of his face, each beauty mark, the way his hair parted naturally down the middle, his strong, Roman nose. He wasn’t what most of the girls you worked with would have called conventionally attractive, but maybe that was what drew you to him so much. The last time you remembered feeling the way you did about Flip was back in high school, over a prom date who ended up ditching you during your senior prom.  
  
After Flip’s investigation started, you began to look forward to going to the club, even taking a little extra time to get dressed up beforehand and putting in a couple hours at the college gym when you could. As soon as the last bit of your loans was paid off, you splurged on a new outfit, as well as the gorgeous pair of red and black ombré Louboutins on your Poshmark wishlist. Something about Flip was different than any other crush you’d had in the past, even the ones you thought you’d never be over, and each night you saw him in the club, scanning the crowd for his perp, you rolled your shoulders back a little, held your head a little higher, walked a little more gracefully. The nights he had time to come over and buy you a drink and chat with you a little left you feeling light as air, even if your money was a little low. There was always that little bit of concern in his eyes when he chatted with you, and when he left, he squeezed your hand firmly, offering you that same little smirk each time. You learned a little more about him during each visit, like how it was in the police academy, how much he liked undercover investigations, his favorite and least favorite assignments.

 

You also learned he was thirteen years older than you, which explained a bit of why he was so protective over you, the other reason being that he took on a lot of cases involving younger, college-aged students. He’d been involved in a few cases at another college involving hate crimes and even a sexual assault case, as well as a few hazing issues. Each time he’d vaguely outlined what had happened, you were amazed at his dedication to each of the cases and how much he really _cared_ . Unlike a lot of the local police, who turned their noses up at the same things Flip dedicated himself to putting an end to.  
  
Maybe it was Flip’s consistency and his gentle, caring attention that you’d grown so used to that made the first night he didn’t come to you the most shocking, and you almost wished for ignorance and a blind eye when you saw him going with one of the other girls to ‘her’ private room. It had been one of your floor nights, where you were free from your little stage, and it had taken all you had not to drop your glass and hide in the dressing room for the rest of the night. Your heart was at your feet, your stomach turning uncomfortably as you forced a smile on your face and continued to do what you always did, albeit with a little less vigor than before. You went home that night without his gentle squeeze of your hand, without your drink together, and despite the hefty wads of cash that weighed down your purse, you dumped them on the floor without much thought before curling up in bed.  
  
Around the same time you and Flip began talking was also when you moved out of the college housing and into a small apartment just off campus by yourself, a tiny, one-room thing that you just managed to squeeze all your belongings into. Your twin mattress was shoved into a little nook, your bathroom the size of a closet, your kitchen taking up half the space of the ‘living room,’ your clothes stored mostly anywhere you could fit them, and the one window ledge you had was home to a row of tiny succulents, since you had neither the space nor the money for a pet. It was obscenely small, even for one person, but it was home, and you cherished the time you got to spend there alone, even if it was only a few hours a day. Most of the time, you napped, but you sometimes had enough energy to read a little, mostly books that weren’t school-issued. Your time was mostly split between being on campus, hiding in the library when you didn’t have class, and the club, where you began to hate the fact that you looked for Flip each night, even though you knew he’d be going into a different private room each time now.

 

Over a month had passed since you two had last gotten time alone together, and your lack of energy and your loss of motivation had begun to affect your dancing, thus bringing your income down a significant amount. Sometimes, you barely had enough to cover your house charge, and you went home with less than a hundred dollars. All the money at home was for living expenses, rent and electric and water and laundry and whatnot, and your little stack of cash was only just enough to make it by for the week for food. You still ate at school for breakfast and lunch, but dinner quickly turned into fifty-cent ramen each night. Sometimes, you even considered selling your beloved Loubis, but you could never bring yourself to do it, mainly because Flip had complimented you on them more than a few times. They lived in their little dust bag, hidden safely in a storage bin unit that doubled as your nightstand.  
  
Now, the sixth Friday since the last time you and Flip got to have your drink together, you pull on a pair of sleek black thigh-highs, clipping them to your garter belt and adjusting the straps of your bondage-style top. Lately, you’ve opted to work the floor more than dancing, since you can make at least six hundred there and come home with more than what you came in with. You ruffle your hair, last night’s style a little messy, but otherwise intact, and you swipe on a coat of a deep blue-toned red liquid lipstick, your staple. Over your outfit goes your coat, a heavy black trench that you picked up at a thrift store, and your beloved heels go into your well-worn duffel, along with your other essentials picked up from the floor as you slip on a pair of boots. The same gloomy, melancholy feeling settles over you the way it has every club night for the past month, but you push past it and urge yourself to get outside to your car and drive to work. A part of you hopes, prays Flip will be there tonight, with your room key attached to your wrist like a bracelet, an invitation to come and see you, but the logical part of you is doubting it will happen.  
  
The parking lot is already packed when you arrive, and you drive slowly, despite your better judgement, looking for Flip’s black Chevy Silverado, with the lights on the dash, and coming up empty. You hate feeling as disappointed as you do, but each time you don’t see a trace of him, you can’t help but feel your heart just sink. For a few minutes, you sit in the parking lot, watching as more patrons pull up, groups of men emerging from their cars with lit cigarettes, laughing loudly as they segue into their Friday night. After a good ten minutes or so, you sneak in through the back entrance, and through the hall to the dressing room, where all the other dancers are. Most of them are caught up in their own conversations with each other, over their outfits being adjusted correctly and their makeup being set properly, but some take notice as you begin to do your last minute touch-ups. You dust your chest with glitter, fluff your hair, and swipe on one last thin coat of lipstick. Gone are your boots, now tucked away safely in your bag, and on your feet are your lucky heels. You look better than you feel, even though you know under the layers of powder and concealer and foundation that your dark circles resemble bruises.  
  
“Sucks that that whole undercover thing is over now,” the girl next to you says, and it takes all of your self-control not to react to it too much, since you had no idea it was _over_ .  
  
“I know, it was nice to have a _gentleman_ in the club for once,” another replies, a brunette in purple, drawing a laugh from the others.  
  
“What about that lawyer who always asks for a private dance? Isn’t he nice enough?” says a girl who’s busy rubbing coconut oil on her legs.  
  
“If you think asking for a blowjob at a discount is ‘nice,’ then yeah, you could say that,” she scoffs, and all the others laugh again.  
  
“That hot cop though,” says a blonde, dressed in ice-blue. “Shame he won’t be back.”  
  
“You spent a lot of time with him, didn’t you?” the girl next to you asks, and it takes a moment to realize she’s addressing you.  
  
“Oh, um, yeah, I did,” you stammer out. “The boss sent him to me on the first night, said he was coming in to catch one of my regulars. I guess he thought I would be the best person for him to talk to first.”  
  
“I hope he comes back when he’s not undercover,” the blonde says. “He was... _fun_ .”  
  
It’s her comment that makes you turn slowly in your chair, eyebrows furrowed. “He was _what_ ?”  
  
“Oh, come on, you really think you were the only one he talked to? He talked to all of us,” she taunts you. The others have gone silent, all the attention on the two of you now.  
  
“I’m not an idiot, I know that,” you snap. “What _happened_ ?”  
  
“More than you’d like to think about,” she says smugly, fluffing her hair as she stared you down.

 

“Did you sleep with him?” you demand, hands shaking as you grip the back of your chair so hard your knuckles turn white.  
  
“You’re a fucking prude,” she laughs nastily. “Maybe I didn’t, maybe I did. But I’m not telling you.”

“You know what, fuck you guys,” you yell, shoving your chair back with enough force that it falls as you storm out, remembering to grab your room key at the last minute before someone else takes it. The door slams shut behind you as you walk as quickly as your heels will take you through the back hallway. You’re hoping for a few brief moments of privacy before you go out onto the main floor for the night, but nothing is suppressing the burning hot tears threatening to escape from your eyes.

 

Behind you, you can hear shouts of your name from the dressing room, but you ignore them as you round the corner, climbing the stairs that lead to the main stage. There’s no one there, thankfully, and you give yourself a moment to breathe as you rake your fingers through your hair, tilt your head back to allow the wetness in your eyes to go away. The floor vibrates as the music just outside the curtain booms, the bass seeming to reverberate through your entire body. You press your lips together, contemplating for a moment if you should just track down your boss and tell him you’re sick and need to go home. The other girl’s words are impossible to shake, and no matter how much you try to force yourself to quit thinking about them, you just can’t do it.  
  
There’s a gentle touch on your shoulder that makes you jump, and you whirl around, coming face-to-face with the dancer who was sitting next to you in the dressing room. She looks apologetic, and for a moment, your anger subsides as she backs away a few steps.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know she’d say something like that to you, I would’ve never said anything if I knew.”  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” you snap. You hate your harsh, unforgiving tone, but you’re too angry to really be considering anyone’s feelings but your own. “It’s done, she said what she had to say.”  
  
“We can report it to the boss,” she suggests, but you shake your head.  
  
“He won’t care, it’s not like he gives a shit about drama between us,” you mutter. Before she can respond, you push the curtain aside and enter the club, taking in the crowd briefly before stepping off the stage. You still haven’t been dancing, and after the exchange in the dressing room, you have no motivation to do so tonight. Instead, you descend the steps of the stage and make your way past a few patrons, smiling as they greet you with raised glasses and cheers.  
  
It’s a short walk to the bar, since the club isn’t too busy yet, even though it’s nearly nine on a Friday night. Most of the groups already present are small, and there’s only a few other girls on the floor with you and no one is on their stages yet. The bartender, the only female employee in the club who isn’t a dancer, greets you with a warm smile and immediately reaches for the large bottle of Grey Goose, but you shake your head. She gives you an amused, if confused look as you point instead at the Jäegermeister and then her fridge of chilled Red Bull cans.  
  
“Jäeger bomb, please,” you yell over the deafening music, before you add, “And a splash of vodka in that, too.”  
  
She pauses for a moment before she starts mixing your drink, and a minute later, she slides your drink down the bar, an unassuming-looking, amber-colored drink that you attempt to down all at once before nearly choking. It _burns_ as it goes down, nearly making you dry-heave as you take another big drink. You feel it immediately, the room and the movements of the patrons immediately seeming to slow to half their normal speed. You blink once, twice as you breathe through your nose, taking a smaller drink this time. Warmth settles over your body, and as your shoulders relax, your drink goes down more smoothly, if only a little bit.  
  
Maybe it’s the drink that makes you oblivious to the fact that Flip has made his way through the crowd to you, dressed in that sherpa jacket and a red and black plaid flannel that matches your outfit of choice almost perfectly. The look on his face is concerned, worried as he reaches first for you, then your drink. You stumble back, holding your glass away from him as you put your other hand out, trying to keep him away.  
  
“No, don’t come any closer,” you yell over the music, taking another step back. “Get away from me.”  
  
“Babydoll, are you drunk?” he asks, staying put with his hands up in surrender. “That’s not a vodka cranberry.”  
  
“It’s not, no, and it’s not your business to control what I drink and what I don’t,” you yell.  
  
“I never said it was,” he replies, sounding mildly hurt, but more concerned than anything. “But what’s wrong, Babydoll, did I do something?”  
  
“I don’t know, you tell me!” you snap, looking behind you for a moment as you edge closer to the club entrance, where two bouncers in black guard the doors. “You slept with half the dancers in this club, how’s that for ‘ _doing something_ ?’”  
  
Flip looks confused, then hurt, but not angry, and as he reaches for you again, you bite your lip and take another drink, shaking your head. You can feel the tears threatening to reappear the longer you look at him, and as you down the last little bit of your drink, your chest heaves and you start sniffling, your glass still clutched in one hand. You’ve turned it over, though, and a few ice cubes spill out onto the carpet as one of the bouncers steps forward, putting an arm in front of you protectively. He sneers at Flip, who immediately backs away a few steps.  
  
“Is this guy giving you trouble?” he asks you, and for a moment, you consider saying yes, just so you won’t have to look at Flip for any longer, but it would hurt you just as much as if he left. You’re torn between running off and not having to deal with Flip anymore and staying to hear what he’s got to say.  
  
“Babydoll, please, let me explain,” Flip pleads. “I can tell you the truth, fix whatever’s wrong.”  
  
“He’s not bothering me,” you murmur quietly, and the bouncer steps away, but not before pointing a finger at Flip and glaring, one hand on his belt, where his taser is.  
  
“If she comes back to me later about issues with you, you’re getting thrown out, Buddy,” he growls, and Flip nods, stepping closer to you.  
  
He leans down, hands on your upper arms, warm through the thin fabric of your robe. Gently, tenderly, he wipes a tear from your cheek without disturbing your makeup, and you turn away from him, covering your mouth with one shaking hand. You shake your head, the most you can do to express your feelings without having to speak. Flip leans closer to you, head bent, breath warm on your ear as he speaks.  
  
“We can go outside, Babydoll, but it’s cold, and I don’t want you to freeze,” he says. “Or we can go to your room, it’s your choice.”  
  
Wordlessly, you pull away, taking his massive hand in yours as you pull him through the crowd, not caring who you knock shoulders with or who gives you dirty looks as you impede their paths. A few girls have emerged from the back, dancing on stage as you glance up just in time to see if the blonde from earlier has appeared. She’s not anywhere in sight, implying perhaps that the girl from earlier _did_ tip off your boss. Either way, you make your way to your door and manage to stick the key into the lock, turn it, and push the door open with surprising clarity for how drunk you feel. As soon as you’re inside, Flip shuts the door behind him, but when he reaches for you, you shove him down onto the bed. He looks mostly hurt as you slip out of your robe and begin to dance for him, like you would any other customer. The hurt you feel overwhelms what desire you have for him to tell you the truth, even if it’s only a little, and you continue to treat him like a normal paying customer as you do what you’ve learned.  
  
“Babydoll,” he says, his voice so full of sincerity and hurt that you actually stop dancing. “Can I explain?”  
  
You shrug, looking away from him as he takes off his coat. “Go ahead, I guess. Although, I don’t know what you could tell me that I haven’t already heard.”  
  
“I didn’t sleep with anyone else,” he says. “I don’t know what people have been saying, but I didn’t; all I was doing was talking. Collecting intel.”  
  
“But why did you never come and find me?” you ask, hating how childish you sound.  
  
“I tried, but you had always slipped out, or I couldn’t see you,” he replies. “Sometimes, I saw you slip through the back door, and you never came back out, and I can’t go back there.”  
  
“How do I know you’re not just…telling me all of this?”  
  
Flip reaches for you, catching your hand in his and squeezing firmly. You realize how much you’ve missed his touch, how steady he makes you feel as he laces his fingers with yours. He tugs gently, waiting for you to respond, and you let him pull you onto the bed beside him. Carefully, he drapes his jacket over your shoulders, still warm and smelling of gunpowder and a faint trace of cigarette smoke, as well as something spicy and woody. You reach up and pull it closer around you, and a moment later, you feel his arm over your shoulders, his hand holding you firmly but gently against him.  
  
“I wouldn’t lie to you, Babydoll,” he murmurs. “Not in a million years.”  
  
“But she...she didn’t deny you two  _did anything_ .”  
  
“If I had done anything with her, I wouldn’t be here telling you I didn’t,” he says. “And I would be on my knees, begging for you to come back to me. I don’t want anyone else the way I want you.”

  
Slowly, you turn to face him, tucking your legs up as you reach for him, pulling him to you by his flannel, burying your face in his chest. His arms immediately wrap around you as he adjusts for you practically climbing into his lap, letting you curl into a little ball while he strokes your hair gently. You shake as you begin to cry, the combination of the alcohol and your heartache finally pushing you over that edge, Flip rocking you and making comforting little noises as he lets you cry yourself out. It takes a good while for you to stop crying, and a little longer for you to collect yourself as he lets you wipe your tears with the tissues in his pocket.

 

“Do you want to go home now?” he asks.  
  
“I think I should,” you say, patting at your eyes with your tissue. “I don’t really feel like dancing now, or even working the room.”  
  
“And the next time you switch up your drink, let me know first, okay?” he teases you. “So I’ll know what to order for you if you’re late.”  
  
You laugh a little, and Flip kisses your nose, earning more little giggles from you as you put your arms through the sleeves of his jacket. Flip collects your robes from the mound of pillows in the corner, and you walk out together hand in hand, fingers laced together. You make a beeline for the back of the club, where the employee door is, and as much as you hate to do it, you let go of his hand as you open the door.  
  
“Wait for me?” you ask. “I just need my bag, then we can go.”  
  
Flip gives you a gentle nod, and you slip behind the door and walk as fast as you can, feeling ten times lighter than before. Thankfully, the dressing room is empty, and you grab your bag and sweep the few tubes of lipstick and eyeliner from your vanity into the opening, zipping it shut and slinging it over your shoulder. You speed walk down the hallway, pulling the door open with so much force that you startle Flip, who’s still waiting for you. The briefly shocked expression on his face makes you laugh, and he shakes his head as he offers you his hand again.  
  
The bouncer from earlier gives Flip another dirty look as you two leave, and you dissolve into a fit of laughter as soon as you get to the parking lot, where it’s beginning to snow, the temperature already below freezing. Flip is laughing, too, and he pulls you close, under his arm as he weaves around the cars and points his keys at his truck. It beeps twice as he unlocks the door for you, and before you can open it yourself, he does it for you, helping you step up onto the running board. You make yourself comfy in his passenger seat while he shuts the door and gets in the driver’s side, and he smiles as he sees you wrapped up in the blanket you pulled from the back seat. As he starts the car, he switches on your seat warmer, rests one massive palm on your bare thigh as soon as he shifts the car into gear and pulls out onto the street.  
  
“We can come get your car tomorrow, if you want,” he says as he pulls onto the highway. “And I took care of your house fee, so you don't have to worry about that, either. You don’t live far from here, do you?”  
  
“Not very,” you say, wrapping up a little more tightly. “The apartment complex by the gas station and the grocery store, that’s where I live.”  
  
Flip toggles with the radio for a moment, switching between stations until he settles on classic rock, returning his hand to your thigh, squeezing gently, like he does with your hand. “Do you have a roommate we need to worry about?”  
  
“No, no roommate,” you say. “Just a few houseplants.”  
  
“I never took you for someone who lived alone,” he says, sounding concerned again. “Does it get lonely?”  
  
You hesitate to answer for a moment, hoping you don’t sound too pathetic when you do. “All the time.” Your voice is quiet, almost too quiet to hear, but Flip still notices, judging by the way he exhales through his nose and shakes his head a little.  
  
Flip is quiet for the rest of the short drive, but when he pulls up to the front of the building and shuts the car off, he leans over and kisses you, his lips a little chapped from the cold, but warm and gentle against yours as he cradles your face in one hand. Your hand covers his, holding him there for a moment as he pulls away just enough to press his forehead to yours.  
  
“Let’s get you inside, Babydoll,” he whispers. “Can’t have you freezing in this weather, can we?”  
  
He unbuckles your seat belt, giving you a chance to pull him in for a second kiss, and he laughs, smiling against your lips as you keep him trapped there for a minute. When you do let him go, he’s quick to come and collect you from the passenger’s side, gathered gently in his arms, your bag in your lap. It’s late, so no one can see Flip carrying you across the parking lot and into the building, the door opening as soon as your neighbor buzzes you in. You think for a moment that he’ll let you down as soon as you get inside, but he doesn’t put you down for the entire elevator ride, or even the brief trip down the hallway to your apartment once you reach your floor. He does let you down to let you unlock the door, and he looks over his shoulder before he steps inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He takes in the tiny apartment, the bed shoved lengthwise against three walls, supported on a flimsy frame, and disguised with a nice duvet and a few throw pillows.

 

You kick a few things aside, slide your bag under the bed, peel off your thigh-highs, and gently tuck your shoes into their bin before you return to Flip. He’s still taking in your tiny apartment, but you pull him towards your bed, which squeaks loudly when he sits down with you. He winces, shifting and listening to the bed squeak more when he does. You laugh a little as you curl against him, watching him kick off his heavy boots, and he holds you as he leans his head against yours. He’s still taking in the sheer lack of space, the succulents on the windowsill, your delicates strung over the bathroom sink on an actual laundry line to air-dry, the scatter of packaged ramen on the counter. The laundry basket is nearly overflowing, and your bag of quarters is dwindling rapidly despite the accumulation of dirty clothes.    
  
“It’s lonely here, Babydoll,” Flip murmurs, breaking the silence. “Is this...is this why you’re so sad sometimes?”  
  
You curl into him as he nuzzles you, rubbing circles into your back. “Sometimes,” you admit. “I just...don’t connect with anyone. I’m afraid of what they’ll say about what I do.”  
  
“What’s it like?” he asks, pulling you into his lap and adjusting his jacket and blanket. “Worrying like that?”  
  
“Terrifying,” you reply. “Lonely. It keeps me up at night sometimes.”  
  
He pulls away briefly, reaching across your makeshift nightstand for the makeup wipes you keep there, and hands you one, tucking your hair behind your ears, out of the way. As you wipe the trails of glitter, layers of powder and foundation and concealer, eyeshadow, and lipstick from your face, Flip gets another wipe and begins to help you. It makes you laugh as he tries to be gentle, and you take the second wipe from him, wiping the remains of your makeup off and peeling your false lashes off your eyes, dropping them in his outstretched palm. You can’t help another fit of laughter as he frowns at the spidery, fluffy lashes in his hand that he quickly deposits onto your nightstand. He runs his thumb over your bottom lip, his skin comfortingly warm against yours, and you pull him close by the front of his shirt, pressing your lips to his. His eyes flutter closed as his tongue traces your lips, and he’s gentle as you open your mouth against his, deepening the kiss. His hand that’s cradling your face slips lower, gently pushing his jacket off your shoulders along with his blanket, and you shrug the rest of your way out of it, and it slides off the edge of the bed. Flip eases you back, breaking the kiss as you let him get onto the bed in front of you, before pressing you down, his thighs on either side of yours.  
  
His hands span the entire width of your back as he unclasps your tight bondage-style top, tugging it off your shoulders and down your arms before tossing it aside, your garter belt following suit. With a gentle groan, he leans forward, closing his plush lips around your nipple as your hands tangle in his hair, pulling gently as he bites gently, his tongue soothing the sting. Your breaths are short, fast and uneven as his left hand eases your panties down, his right covering your other breast, kneading and squeezing gently. When he lifts his head, his lips are swollen and red, his eyes bright, his hair a mess from where you’ve mussed it. He smirks at you before pressing his lips to your sternum, and a moment later, you feel the gentle scrape of his teeth, followed by the soft press of his tongue as he bites and licks his way down your stomach. He tugs your panties to your knees before you whine, squirming as you get them the rest of the way off. They dangle from your left ankle for a brief moment before Flip pushes your legs up and they fall, joining the rest of your clothes on the ground.  
  
“Flip, wait,” you whimper, nudging him with your foot before he can lean in again. “You, too.”  
  
He slides off the bed a little, to allow himself enough room to unbutton his shirt, smirking at you all the while as he does. With a desperate, distressed-sounding noise, you sit up, leaning forward to pull his shirt open yourself, your hands shaking as you undo each button to reveal his chiseled, muscular chest. As you push his shirt off his shoulders, your fingers tingle with the heat emanating from his skin. He burns almost like a fever, his skin almost too hot to touch, but you run your fingers down his chest, pressing your palm flat against his stomach before you pull at his belt. His hands cover yours as you unfasten his belt, pulling it through the loops of his soft, worn jeans.  
  
“Babydoll,” he murmurs, and when you look up in response, he leans down to kiss you, his hands fitting around your wrists easily, his fingers more than meeting as he lifts them to rest on his shoulders. You get on your knees next to him, feeling him smirk into the kiss as he pulls his jeans down, hearing the clink of his belt look against your floor a moment later. One of your hands drops to pull at the waistband of his boxer briefs, but he catches you again, and your eyes flutter open, out of both surprise and indignation.  
  
“Lay back,” he says, and it takes a gentle press against your stomach for you to obey. As you settle back onto your bed, getting as far as you can on one end, he makes himself as comfortable as he can between your legs, hooking his arms under your knees and lifting them over his impossibly broad shoulders. His breath is hot against your dripping cunt, and you squirm a little as you wait impatiently for him to lick you, even press his tongue against you. His grip is firm, strong against your thighs as he finally leans in, his hair tickling your inner thighs as he presses the flat of his tongue against your cunt. His tongue seems to span the entire width of your cunt, and he presses it to you with steady, firm pressure. Just like the rest of him, his tongue is edging on unbearably hot, but against your aching cunt, it feels like heaven. His beard scratches your inner thighs, so much that after a little while, it burns.   
  
“God–Flip, please, fuck, I need…” you moan, closing your thighs around his head as he slides the tip of his tongue into your dripping wet core. He growls, deep and low against you, and you whine, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling _hard_ .  
  
“Pull harder, Babydoll,” he growls, and you immediately obey, earning you another low growl from him as he thrusts his tongue in and out of you, before withdrawing completely and wrapping his lips around your sore, swollen clit. At the first scrape of his teeth, you lift your hips as much as you can, forcing him closer to you, but his grip on your thighs only tightens, and he presses you back down. He sucks hard on your clit, harder and harder until you’re squirming, moaning as you cum against his mouth. You feel something sliding inside you, something thick and hot, curling against your walls, and he continues to suck at your clit as he starts working his fingers in and out of you, slowly at first, and then faster, as he feels your second orgasm approaching.  
  
With a yelp, you cum around his fingers, your walls pulsing, clenching hard around what must be three of them, as he curls them inside you, still thrusting them at a steady, hard pace. He licks at your clit until you’re whining for him to stop, and immediately, he pulls away, withdrawing his fingers from your cunt with a filthy wet pop. You watch him in your post-orgasm haze as he sucks each finger into his mouth, growling as he tastes your cum, and he smirks as he watches your dazed expression. You’re still aching for him to push you against the bed and press his cock inside you, but when you reach for him, he catches your wrist, his fingers interlocking with yours.  
  
“Flip, _please,_ ” you whine, your thighs still shaking from the two orgasms he gave you. “More, _please_ , I want you, _please fuck me_ –”  
  
“More, please, _Daddy_ , Babydoll,” he corrects you, and something about it sends a jolt through you that lights your nerves on fire. “Ask again.”  
  
“ _Daddy, please,_ ” you whimper desperately, and he laughs, sounding genuinely amused.  
  
“Alright, Babydoll,” he purrs. “Daddy’s going to take care of you, don’t worry.”  
  
He eases his boxer briefs down, slowly, teasingly, and there’s no concealing the whine when you see his cock hit his lower stomach, hard and flushed red, leaking precum, curved beautifully and impossibly long and thick, and it takes all your self-control not to lean forward and take control. He kicks his boxer briefs off, kicking them across the floor as he pulls you closer, easing you into his lap. You’re on your knees, his cock hard and hot against your inner thigh, and tentatively, you reach down, to get your hand around him. He’s burning hot, thick enough that your fingers don’t meet around him, and as you spread your fingers, you find you can’t spread your fingers across his length, either. He hisses as he feels your heat against him, snarling when you rub him against your entrance a few times. Flip lets out a little sigh as you stroke him, growling a little when you wrap your fingers around him again as you lower yourself onto his cock. He’s hot and hard and thick against your cunt, and as you let out a breath, you ease him inside you.  
  
He stretches you open easily, wider than you’ve ever felt before, and you force yourself to relax as you slide down on him more, feeling his girth stretching you open, forcing the walls of your cunt to accommodate his cock. A choked, stifled sob escapes your lips as you sink down halfway, feeling already like he’s filled you, like you can’t take any more, but you let out another breath, taking another three inches all at once. Flip grips your hips tightly, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. He grunts, shifting his hips and adjusting his angle so he’s pressing harder inside you, and you whimper as you slowly, steadily sink to make your hips meet his. You’re sitting flush against his lap, his cock filling you completely, your breath almost completely gone, and feeling like his cock has pushed everything else inside you aside to make room for him.  
  
“ _Fuck_ , Babydoll, you’re so tight around my cock... _fuck,_ do you want Daddy to fuck you now?” Flip sighs against your ear, his hair tickling your cheeks.  
  
“Yes, please, _Daddy_ , I need you, please fuck me–” you moan, and you’re cut off as Flip begins rolling his hips slowly, thrusting, the sound of his skin against yours filling the room. He presses his forehead against yours, his honey-brown irises eclipsed almost entirely by the black of his pupils, his lips pouty and swollen as he moans. His hands slide up your sides, your arms draped over his shoulders as he picks up his pace, thrusting faster now, your legs wrapped around his waist. One of his hands slips in between you, in the bit of space between your stomach and his, and a moment later, he chooses instead to take your hand to replace his own.  
  
“Are you gonna cum on my cock, Babydoll?” he sighs, moaning again as you rub your clit, fingers slipping and sliding as they’re coated in your cum. “Fuck, your little pussy feels like it was _made_ for me, tell me who your cunt belongs to, _fuck_ .”  
  
“You, Daddy, it belongs to you,” you whimper, your walls beginning to spasm around his cock, squeezing him harder as you feel yourself at the edge of your orgasm.  
  
“ _Oh, fuck yeah, Babydoll,_ ” he snarls, snapping his hips up to meet yours, the feeling of his cock dragging against the walls of your cunt exquisite, the way he fills you unlike anyone else you’ve ever been with. “Come on, cum for me, cum for Daddy, that’s right...”  
  
Your orgasm washes over you in a wave of heat, your cunt squeezing, spasming around his cock as he thrusts once, twice, before he grabs your hips and holds you tightly against him, cumming as you do. You’re filled with warmth as he moans, letting out a shaky breath as his hips twitch, grinding against yours as he attempts to get deeper, and you fist your hands in his hair, riding out your orgasm. After a moment, Flip lets out a little laugh, a little hoarse and deep, and you nuzzle his hair, breathing in the scent of sweat and sex and something woodsy. Flip’s hands slide up your sides, before rubbing gentle circles into your back. It takes a few deep breaths before you’re breathing evenly again, and Flip is pressing gentle kisses to your neck as he continues rubbing your back.  
  
After a few long minutes, he gently lifts you off his lap, and you whine when you feel a rush of something liquid and something leaking out of you. You’re worried you’ll get your only set of bedsheets dirty, but Flip reaches down, presses three fingers inside you, and pulls them out after a moment, offering them to you. Both your hands close around his wrist as you lick his fingers clean, taking a moment to suck each of them and earning you a smirk from Flip. He reaches down, fumbling through the pile of both your clothes before retrieving his flannel, and eases your arms through the sleeves before buttoning the first few buttons. By now, you’re starting to feel your afterglow washing over you, feeling a little drowsy as Flip lays down beside you and then pulling you onto his bare chest. As you rest your head on him, you can hear his heartbeat, still quick as he breathes deeply. Lazily, you drape one arm over him, fumbling for his hand, and when he grabs yours and locks your fingers together, his thumb rubbing your knuckles, you finally close your eyes.  
  
“Sleepy, Babydoll?” he asks, with a little laugh.  
  
“Mmm-hmm,” you reply with a yawn, and there’s a little rustling before he pulls your blankets over the two of you.  
  
The feeling of his free hand petting your hair lulls you into a daze quickly, thick fingers gently detangling your messy hair. You tangle your legs with his, effectively trapping him just as much as he’s trapping you, and it earns you another gentle, deep laugh.  
  
“Move in with me,” he says, sounding just as sleepy as you but with no trace of uncertainty in his voice.  
  
“Hm?” you murmur, unsure if you’ve heard him right.  
  
“Move in with me,” he repeats. “I have a house, not an apartment, and it’s not much, but it’s comfortable, closer to where you work. You’ll have plenty of room for all your things, enough to spread out and not feel so cramped. You can keep doing what you do, that won’t have to change if you don’t want it to, but you’ll be able to come home to a real home every night, not just...a lonely place.”  
  
Your eyelashes flutter as you open your eyes, peering up at him as he gazes down at you, looking a little dreamy. He continues petting your hair, pushing it away from your face as you study his expression.  
  
“Are you sure?” you ask. “I know I don’t have much, but...is that what you want?”  
  
“I’ve never wanted anything more, Babydoll,” he replies. “But more importantly, is that what _you_ want?”  
  
You smile, nuzzling his chest to hide your flushed cheeks. “Being with you is _all_ I want.”

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on my [tumblr](http://clydelogan.tumblr.com/) if you enjoyed!


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